“Now then,” as they had divested themselves of their glistening coats, “the worst is over, and off we go.”

At times the hard smooth trail wound like a silver ribbon under the pale glow of the Aurora.  Then, with flying feet, they sped along the edge of deep gorges, up steep slopes, and over the glare ice of rivers and lakes.

But the distance between them and the other teams was now gradually lessening, and at Timber Road House they had made up half of the time lost in Candle.  Here they had the next “big sleep,” lying on clean straw on the floor beside Allan, whose closeness calmed their nerves.  It was a great comfort to be able to place a paw on him, or sociably lick his hand—­for they felt that all was well if they were but within reach of their master’s touch.

They awoke full of renewed energy.  “Scotty” was harnessing them for the last long run, with the help of his brother Bill, and Paul Kegsted, who had charge of that relay station for the Kennel Club.

“Boys,” he gasped in amazement, “Baldy’s gone lame.  He’s so stiff he can scarcely move.  I can’t understand it, for he was all right when I turned in.”  At the slightest touch the dog winced, and Allan was appalled at the situation.

He had trained nearly all of the dogs so that they could lead under most circumstances; but this final struggle would require far more than ordinary ability.

Wise old Tom, Dick and Harry, reluctant in the start, had saved themselves until they were most needed; and were now steady and reliable, as had been predicted—­but they were not leaders for such a trial as this.  Irish and Rover were too inexperienced for so much responsibility, Spot was too young, and McMillan too headstrong.

“Scotty” was without a leader.

Allan’s consternation was echoed in Nome when the report of the mishap was given out—­“Allan practically no hope.  Baldy down and out; no other leader available.  All other teams well ahead in good condition.”

There was much diverse, and some heated, comment on the situation.  But above the general clamor rose the strident tones of Black Mart, alluding with manifest satisfaction to the fact that Baldy was certainly proving himself a “quitter” now.

“Baldy may be lame, but he is not a quitter,” denied the Woman wrathfully.  “Besides, this race is never won—­nor lost—­till the first team is in,” and she turned to comfort Ben Edwards.

He had been suddenly roused from happy thoughts by this disconcerting news.  From his eyes there faded the glorious vision of the great University beside the Golden Gate; of the rose-covered cottage where his mother would have only pleasant things to do; of Moose Jones in a shiny hat and tailed coat receiving the plaudits of a whole State for his princely gifts to its chosen seat of learning—­the vision of his own success laid upon the altar of love and gratitude.  And instead he saw only the distant cabin at Timber, with poor Baldy crippled and suffering, bringing bitter disappointment to his friends; and his heart was filled with grief and longing for the dog.